The warmth of the bath had long since faded. Clara sat on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a silk robe, staring blankly at the diamond-studded watch Ethan gave her last year. A gift for their fourth anniversary — meaningless now.
Still, she told herself tonight would be different. She had planned everything with precision. A private dinner. Candlelight. Vintage wine from the year they got married. And her heart — foolish, loyal — still clung to hope like a child holding onto a broken toy.
Clara touched the envelope beside her. Inside, divorce papers. Neatly typed. Signed.
It wasn't just a romantic dinner tonight.
It was goodbye.
She had one final question for Ethan: Why?
And if he couldn't give her a reason, she would walk away with what little dignity she had left.
7:00 PM — Dining Room
The table was set for two. A bouquet of blue hydrangeas — her favorite — sat at the center, surrounded by flickering candles. The roast duck was still steaming, the garlic butter asparagus perfectly arranged, the wine chilled to perfection.
But Ethan was late.
Again.
Clara checked her phone. No messages. No missed calls.
She sat down, pushing her feelings into a corner of her mind. Just a little longer, she told herself.
The door finally opened at 7:43.
Ethan Blake strolled in, dressed sharply in a navy suit, tie slightly loosened. He didn't look like a man rushing to see his wife. He looked… irritated.
"You're still up?" he asked, walking past her without a glance.
"I made dinner," she said, forcing a smile. "For our anniversary."
He paused. "Right. That's today."
The smile fell from her face.
Clara tried to keep her voice steady. "I wanted us to talk. Eat together, like we used to."
Ethan finally turned toward her, his face unreadable. "I'm not hungry."
She stood up. "Please. Just ten minutes."
His jaw tensed. "Fine."
He sat down opposite her. For a moment, they were a picture of a perfect couple. Except his eyes were cold, and hers were heavy with pain.
Clara poured the wine, then pushed a plate toward him. "I made your favorite."
Ethan picked up his fork, stabbing the duck with disinterest. "This won't change anything, Clara."
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
He sipped his wine. "Whatever this is — this dinner, the perfume, the dress — it's too late."
Clara swallowed hard. "Too late for what? For us? For honesty?"
Ethan put down his fork. "For pretending this marriage is real."
Her heart cracked.
"I gave up everything for you," she whispered. "My inheritance. My family's name. I stood by you when your company nearly crashed. And you call this marriage pretend?"
Ethan's lips curled into a cold smile. "You made a choice. Don't play the victim now."
"I'm not the victim," Clara said, voice trembling. "I'm your wife."
"No, Clara. You're a placeholder."
Silence.
And then, like ice melting on skin, the truth hit her.
"You love her," Clara said quietly.
He didn't answer.
Her hand clenched around the stem of her glass. "Emily. My best friend."
"She's more than that," he replied without shame. "She's been there in ways you never were."
Clara's stomach twisted. "I gave you everything."
"And yet you were never enough," Ethan said.
The words felt like knives.
She stood up slowly. "Then let's not waste time."
Clara reached into her robe and laid the envelope on the table.
"Divorce," she said. "Signed."
Ethan didn't reach for it. "You think you can just walk away?"
"You already did."
They stared at each other across the table — strangers. Enemies.
Clara took a bite of her toast. She had barely swallowed when her head began to spin.
Her vision blurred.
She reached for the table, but her fingers felt like air.
"E-Ethan…"
Her knees buckled. The glass fell and shattered.
"Help… me…"
Ethan stood still. Unmoving. Watching.
She crawled toward him, her breathing shallow, heart pounding wildly in her chest. Her throat burned. Her limbs refused to cooperate.
"W… why?"
He crouched beside her, his voice eerily calm. "You should've stayed quiet."
Her eyes widened. It was him. Or… someone close.
The last thing Clara saw before darkness claimed her was Ethan walking away — phone to his ear — like she was already gone.
Somewhere beyond the veil…
It was cold.
Endless.
Weightless.
But not silent.
A voice whispered through the blackness.
"You were betrayed, Clara Reynolds… but fate has chosen to rewrite your ending."
"You will return. You will rise."
"But vengeance has a price."
Gasp!
Clara shot upright, drenched in sweat.
She clutched her chest, lungs desperate for air. Her heart thundered like a drum. Panic gripped her, but so did confusion.
She looked around.
White curtains. Wooden shelves. Familiar posters on the wall. Her skin — unwrinkled. Her hands — youthful.
And the calendar.
Her eyes locked onto the date.
August 1st. Five years ago.
No. No, this isn't possible.
She stumbled to the mirror.
The reflection staring back was one she hadn't seen in years. Her hair longer, cheeks fuller, eyes filled with innocence — untouched by betrayal.
She whispered, "I'm… alive?"
More than that.
She was back.
Tears welled up in her eyes. This time, not from pain, but from purpose.
She wasn't going to waste this miracle.
She wasn't going to cry over Ethan again.
This time…
She would rewrite everything.